


If You're Going Through Hell

by thisisthefamilybusiness



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark Crack, Developing Relationship, Hell Fic, M/M, Minor Spoilers for 'Red Dragon' and 'The Silence of the Lambs', Off-Screen Major Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthefamilybusiness/pseuds/thisisthefamilybusiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is my eternal punishment, isn’t it? Being stuck with you acting like a snotty little kid and endless fucking bowls of beanie-weenies and the Weather Channel and televangelists.” Will pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, inhaling slowly and trying to tune Hannibal out. He knew what happened when he killed himself in Hell, maybe he should investigate what happened when he killed Hannibal in Hell. </p><p> </p><p>Fill for the following prompt on HannibalKink: "Hannibal and Will meet again in the afterlife. Take this wherever you want."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Going Through Hell

There's a lot less brimstone in Hell than Will imagined.

But, to be honest, there's not much in Hell that’s anything like he'd imagined.

There was supposed to be torture and blood and screaming, but so far, everything Will has seen in Hell is basically just a nicer landscaped, blander version of the suburbs, with fewer chain restaurants and strip malls. Just endless rows of nearly identical houses.

The worst thing that's happened to Will in the past two weeks (at least, he thinks it's been two weeks, but he's not really sure) was waking up in his not-uncomfortable-enough-to-complain-about-but-not-actually-comfortable-at-all bed in his new fully furnished house and being politely informed by a high-pitched screaming voice in his head that yes, he was dead, and yes, he was in Hell. And even then, at least that managed to be kind of exciting. Hell's worst torture yet was how painfully bland it all was, like they were trying to bore Will into a second death.

He has neighbours, at least. Which is vaguely interesting, and watching them gives him something to do beyond eat another can of beanie-weenies (apparently the canned combination of hot dogs and baked beans was indeed Hell's invention) and stare at one of the two channels that his television picked up (either a channel of only televangelists' broadcasts or the weather channel, which was ridiculous because it was perpetually sunny and always exactly 85 degrees Fahrenheit).

Not the neighbours are really exciting, either. Mostly they watched television or wandered around, like Will. The most interesting thing so far was looking at all everyone's death wounds and trying to figure out what era their clothes were from and how they'd died. (It had taken Will a day or two to get used to the gaping knife wounds on his neck and face, but after a while they stopped bothering him. The cuts didn't bleed or hurt or impede his movement or anything, though the sensation of fresh air on exposed bone and muscle had taken a while to get used to. At worst it just made his own reflection a little disconcerting to look at.)

Will tried to leave his house occasionally, but beanie-weenies were the only thing the restaurants and stores sold, and even eating beanie-weenies in a different setting couldn't make them _exciting_.

Eventually, Will got tired of it all and tried to throw himself off the roof of his house, curious if suicide would actually do anything, but he just woke up a few minutes later, lying in his bed, head throbbing with a headache.

* * *

It takes a minute for Will to realise that his bedroom had changed when he wakes up the next ‘day’―his bed was now twin-sized, and there was an identical bed across the room, with a big human-shaped lump lying under the lump pastel blue blankets and slightly-scratchy white sheets.

The human-shaped lump gives a start suddenly, shoving blankets aside, breathing hard.

Will has to do a double-take, unwilling to believe what he's seeing, but there's no mistaking that face, sallow and fine-lined with age though it is.

"Hannibal?" Will days hesitantly.

The other man blinks at him a few times, like he has to digest what he's seeing as well. "Will Graham?"

"Yeah. Uh, what are you doing here? I don't mean in Hell―" Will imagines he knows exactly why Hannibal's in Hell, "―I mean, what are you doing in my house."

"I do not know." Hannibal glances around, looking out the window and its view of the endless suburban streets. "This is Hell? It is not as I imagined."

Will shrugs. "Not exactly what I pictured either. But I think it's because, you know, all the masochists, they'd like spending an eternity being tortured. I guess no one likes the suburbs."

"Sensible." Hannibal rolls out of bed, and Will realises that Hannibal's still wearing one of his impeccably tailored plaid suits. "I presume you did not survive the second coming of Francis Dolarhyde?"

"Nope. Molly shot him, though. And she and Willy got out okay." Which, really, was the important thing.

Hannibal nods politely. "They did not inform me."

"How'd you die?" Will can't find any obvious death wounds on Hannibal, which really isn’t fair. Hannibal was a serial-killing cannibal; he really should have to look way more gruesome than Will.

" _Glioblastoma multiforme_ —brain cancer.” Of fucking course. Hannibal gets to die of cancer at....however many years old he was, anyways, which is almost guaranteed to be older than Will was when _he_ died. “If it would comfort you, you may know that I died choking on my own vomit during a seizure.”

...Which sounds more like the death Hannibal deserved. Nice and humiliating and not dignified in the least. “So, uh, welcome,” Will says awkwardly, unsure of what else to say or do.  “Are you hungry or anything?”

“What do you have to eat?”

“Beanie-weenies.”

Hannibal pulls a face. “What is a...beanie-weenie?”

Will has to take a minute to compose himself, because hearing the great Dr. Hannibal Lecter say the words ‘beanie-weenie’ is probably the funniest goddamned thing he has ever heard in his life. “Uh, baked beans and hot dogs cut into little coins. It’s all there is to eat here. Literally.”

His ex-psychiatrist sighs and rises to his feet. “I suppose I will have to adapt to this, will I not?”

* * *

When Will finally plates up the lukewarm beanie-weenies (because the stove, oven, and microwave would only heat food to either ‘lukewarm with a still-cold centre’ or ‘hotter than a fucking volcano’) for Hannibal, Hannibal stares at Will like he’s an idiot.

“Will,” Hannibal says slowly. “This is instant cream-of-wheat cereal.”

But it’s not—Will takes a glace down at Hannibal’s bowl, and it’s still clearly beanie-weenies. “No, it’s not.”

“I know what hot cereal looks like, Will. And this is what it looks like.”

“Look, all I see is a bowl of beans and cut-up hot dogs, okay?” Will pulls a can out of his pantry and slams it down on the cheap table. “See?”

“That is a box of cream-of-wheat, Will.”

“No, it’s not.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me, you really hate cream-of-wheat or something, right?”

“No.” Hannibal picks up his spoon and sighs. “I have nothing against any form of cereal. It’s just...sort of disappointing.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to Hell, Doctor,” Will snaps. “Get used to disappointment.”

“Rude,” mutters Hannibal.

“This is my eternal punishment, isn’t it? Being stuck with you acting like a snotty little kid and endless fucking bowls of beanie-weenies and the Weather Channel and televangelists.”

“I do not behave like a child...”

Will pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, inhaling slowly and trying to tune Hannibal out. He knew what happened when he killed himself in Hell, maybe he should investigate what happened when he killed Hannibal in Hell.

“...and furthermore, I find your actions quite rude—”

“Hannibal,” Will interrupts. “If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I am going to see what happens when you kill someone you’re trapped in the afterlife with. Got it?”

Hannibal looks taken back, but he immediately shuts up and starts shovelling mouthfuls of his beanie-weenies into his mouth.

This is going to be a very, very long eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the eponymous song by Rodney Atkins (is my musical taste showing yet?). 
> 
> (For the record, I love both beanie-weenies and cream-of-wheat.)


End file.
